Hector Graeme Page 8

  *CHAPTER VIII*

  The hill station of Chillata lay seething in the summer rains. Thisqueer, rambling place, the hot-weather capital of India, is a collectionof houses strewn seemingly haphazard along the crest and slopes of afir-clad ridge, or rather chain of hills, some three miles in length andmany thousand feet above the level of the plains. On all sides of theridge the ground falls steeply away; on the south towards the plains, ahaze-veiled vista of brown flat, stretching unbroken to the horizon; onthe north, east and west to a succession of forest-clad hills andvalleys, beyond which rises a chain of snow-capped mountains. Runningalong the crest of the ridge lies the one metalled road, the main arteryof the place, bordering which stand the various European dwellings.These are few and far apart towards the western extremity, but increasein number as the road runs on eastward, till finally they merge into thetown itself, a heterogeneous mass of shops, Government buildings, andnative bazaar.

  Such in brief was, and is, Chillata, the summer residence of Britishofficial might and majesty in India, and consequently, during thatseason, the resort of all that is most select and fashionable in thecountry. In the hot weather of the year 1900, however, thoughts otherthan those of social pursuits and sport were occupying the minds of mostmen. The British Empire was at war in distant South Africa, and so far,though close on a year had elapsed since its beginning, no sign of theend was at hand, and the fate of England still rocked in the balance.

  Still, even this fact, patent though it was to all, failed to interfereappreciably with Chillata enjoyments, for to human nature it is notpublic but individual interests that matter; and even a toothache is offar greater moment to him who feels it than the fate of a hundredempires. Thus it came about that, so far from proving a damper, the waracted as a stimulant to the enjoyment of Chillata youth; theever-present possibility of harrowing partings added zest to love-makingbetween the sexes; waltz tunes gained in enchantment; and heartsthrilled in response to stirring martial ballad.

  In high official quarters a somewhat different view prevailed, for herewere men with a stake in the country, oldish men to whom waltz tune andmartial ballad failed to appeal--their time for that was past. Unlikethe others, they, being more largely interested, were able to take alarger view, and thus realised that England's downfall would certainlyinvolve that of India, and consequently their own, a very serious matterindeed. Here faces were grave--the higher the official, the graver theface--as, deaf to the gay glamour rising from the Mall outside, they satin dingy offices anxiously deliberating or wrestling with increasingcorrespondence.

  In one of these offices, a bare and cheerless apartment, situated in thehuge brick edifice forming the Military Offices of Chillata, a man satbusily writing one September morning--a thick-set man, with bristlingblack hair and round, staring eyes, last seen one August morning in FortHussein, now a brigadier in rank and Adjutant-General to the Indianforces. On the table before him lay a pile of letters, fat-lookingdocuments in long official envelopes, both white and blue, most of themmarked "Urgent," "Very Urgent," or "Confidential." These he was openingin turn, rapidly reading, and answering on slips of yellow paper, whichhe carefully pinned to the various documents, and threw into tin traysplaced on the floor beside him for removal and subsequent engrossment byhis clerks.

  A knock at the door was heard. "Come in, come in," he muttered, andCaptain de Boudoir, Star Comedian of the Chillata A.D.C., appeared. Toprevent the departure of this officer for the plains, and consequentdisappointment to the public, he had been retained as staff officer,despite protest, to the Adjutant-General to the Forces, the IntelligenceDepartment--the natural refuge of such as he--being unfortunately fullup at the time.

  "In an hour, De Boudoir," said Quentin, "I'm not ready for you yet. No,it's no good asking for a morning off; I won't give it you for fiftyrehearsals."

  "But, sir, this evening, sir, his Excellency's coming. Hoped you wouldtoo, sir."

  "Bah! You can't go, I tell you. What's that, a card? I won't see him,whoever he is."

  "He won't go, sir; it's Captain Pushful; he's here every day."

  "What does he want?"

  "Usual thing, sir--South Africa."

  "Tell him to go to blazes. I have work enough, as it is, without beingworried by every fool who wants to go battle-fighting. Confound it, DeBoudoir, what the devil's the good of you if you can't----. Hullo! whatthe--who the dickens is this?" for the door had gently opened, and ahead appeared, its eyes beaming upon him.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said an insinuating voice, and thereupon abody followed the head, "but could you spare me a minute? I won't keepyou long sir."

  "Who the devil are you?"

  "My name is Pushful, sir. I think, sir, I'm a connection of yours bymarriage. My sister----"

  "Turn him out, De Boudoir. Oh, damn it all, this is----"

  "My sister Mary, sir, married your second cousin William. 'Boodles' weused to call him, because----"

  "Really, sir, I fail to see----"

  "And Boodles told me to be sure and look you up."

  "Tell me what you want, sir, and go."

  "I thought, sir, perhaps you would see your way to get me out to SouthAfrica, and----"

  "Send in an application then. Good-day."

  "I have, sir, six already."

  "Send another then, and I'll consider it."

  "Thank you, sir, and you will----"

  "Oh yes, yes. Good-day, and De Boudoir," as the door closed behind thevisitor, "when that application comes, put it where the others go, inthe basket; d'ye understand?"

  "Very good, sir, anything more?"

  "No. Yes, there is. Do you know a Captain Graeme, 1st Lancers? Ithought I saw him the other day."

  "Yes, sir; he's here on two months' leave. She's been in Chillata sinceApril, living at Dilkhusha, the house the Pennants had last year."

  "If you see him to-day, will you tell him I want him? If you don't, senda note."

  "Very well, sir. I'll get my pony, and go there now."

  "No, you won't; you'll stay where I can get at you, in your office. Gothis afternoon if you like, till then work. That will do, thank you,"upon which De Boudoir sorrowfully withdrew, cursing the fate that hadplaced him here, instead of with his friends in the IntelligenceDepartment.

  "I'd like to give the fellow a chance," muttered Quentin; "he was badlytreated over that last affair. Colonel would not even recommend him fora transport billet"--for in this way had Schofield saved his face onHector's refusal--"and he was wrong, I'm sure of it; the fellow's gotstuff in him, if it can be got out, that I'll swear, though I only sawhim for a few minutes. Well, I'll give it to him, and damn therecommendation." He sat thinking for a moment, then plunged once moreinto his correspondence.

  * * * * *

  Three miles away, the subject of these reflections was idly lounging inthe breakfast-room of Dilkhusha, a fair-sized two-storied building lyingamong the fir-woods at the extreme western end of the Chillata range.Nearly three years had elapsed since a certain fateful Riwalarace-meeting, three uneventful years, spent in the manner usual toAnglo-Indians in India. Two more Regimental Cup races had been won andlost, but on neither occasion had Hector competed, nor even been presentas a spectator. With Lucy's full concurrence, nay, urging, he had shutup their bungalow and departed with her on shooting trips to the hills.During these three years Lucy's health had gradually declined, till shewas now but a wreck of her former self; that she had been too long inIndia was the opinion of most, while the doctors declared that it was anervous breakdown, started probably by the shock of the Cup incident,and in this perhaps they were right, for illness and Lucy had had littleacquaintance before that event.

  It is true there had been no trouble over the matter, or suggestion offoul riding on Hector's part; on the contrary, much sympathy had beenexpressed with them both for the pain and grief they must be foiling. Aletter had also been received fro
m O'Hagan's mother, a sad letter, forit appeared that, whatever his other feelings, the dead man had been agood and devoted son, but she in no way blamed Hector for his share inher son's death. It was even worse for him than for her, she wrote, andfrom where he was now, Robert, she knew, forgave him as fully as sheherself did.

  Hector, having read the above, when handed to him by his wife, hadabsently rolled it into a spill, and was proceeding to light a cigarettewith it, when Lucy had snatched it from him and hurried away to herroom, where she had sobbed on her bed for hours. One consolation washers, and that was the obvious avoidance of her by Peter Carson. Whenthey met, as was sometimes unavoidable, he was always friendly, more soeven than before, but he took care not to meet her eye; and he did notcome to the house at odd times, as was his wont. Finally, he had leftRiwala for a year's shooting expedition to Eastern Africa, and, thoughthe twelve months was nearly up, she would not see him again--not for along time, at any rate--for shortly she too would be gone, leaving thehateful country, she hoped, for good. She and her husband, a few monthshence, would be at home, a course urged upon Hector by the doctors forover a year, but which Lucy had refused to follow till he couldaccompany her. At last, after many refusals, Colonel Schofield hadagreed to Captain Graeme's going in October, three months ahead, not aday before.

  A change now was more than ever imperative for Lucy, on whom, inaddition to her other troubles, a further burden had been laid--one forwhich she had always longed, but which in her present feeble conditionthreatened to overwhelm her. To all the doctors' entreaties, to go homein the spring and let Hector follow her six months later, she refused tolisten, her only concession being to spend the hot weather in Chillata,instead of remaining in Riwala with her husband as she originallyintended.

  Here he would be able to run up for the very few days' leave he couldhope to obtain. They would be in the same country, at any rate, and ifhe were ill she would know at once, and have a home ready for him tocome to; whereas, by the other plan, thousands of miles of sea would bebetween them, and anything might happen to him even without herknowing--things in India occurred with such appalling suddenness.

  Hector, on his part, had done his best. He had rented one of the best,though unfashionably situated, houses in Chillata, and personallysuperintended every detail for her comfort. He even accompanied her onthe long, tedious fifty-mile carriage drive up the hill, a specialcomfortable landau having been chartered by him for the journey, insteadof the ordinary two-wheeled tonga usually employed by travellers to thatplace. This was a most unwonted attention on Hector's part, who hadhitherto held himself aloof from all such matters, leaving them to bedealt with by Lucy, even to such details as the packing of his personalbelongings and arrangements for the transport of ponies, etc.

  Like Lucy, he too had changed much of late, and now showed aconsideration and affection of which even she would never have believedhim capable. Of what had brought this about she was ignorant, nor didHector himself know exactly. Remorse for O'Hagan's death was certainlynot the cause, or even regret for the pain caused to his wife;nevertheless he too had been shaken, not by the act itself--the memoryof which troubled him not at all--but by the revelation within him ofsome tremendous capacity for evil, rendering him a thing apart from hisfellows. The knowledge of this for a time had shaken even his calloussoul, and given birth to a feverish desire to be as others are, to feelas they felt, to live as they lived.

  With this feeling within him, he laid himself out to please Lucy,anticipating her every want and devoting himself to her to an extentthat caused Graeme's uxoriousness, as it was called, to become a byword,especially in Chillata, where connubial devotion was a somewhat unusualthing. Hector was far too desperately in earnest to care for the world'ssneers; they didn't know what his object was, how should they? Heredoubled his efforts, and now that a child was to be born to themstrove with all his might to interest himself in the baby'scoming--little liking as he had for children--for in the cultivation ofsuch purely natural feelings as affection for wife and child, herealised dimly, could he hope to stifle the monster of whose existencehe alone was aware.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, Lucy knew nothing of all this.She was too sane and healthy-minded to be able to comprehend such anature as her husband's, and with the curious fatality that had alwaysmarked her dealings with him, she now, instead of aiding, ratherfrustrated his efforts, and always, sadly enough, to her own undoing.It was not want of tact on her part, for of that quality Lucy had morethan most, but simply that, being so normal herself, the comprehensionof the abnormal was beyond her understanding; and, though touched andpleased with her husband's constant wish to be always with her, she yetfought against it, believing that he stayed solely to please her. Withthis idea in her mind, she was constantly urging him to leave her, andmix more with his kind; it was unnatural, she declared, for a man towish to remain in the house all day with, at most, an hour's walk as hissole exercise. Of course, it was sweet of him to wish to be with her,and she appreciated the thought, but she would much rather he didn't;she could get on very well by herself, and he would always be homebefore dark.

  Hector, driven in upon himself, would go off on long solitary rides--theworst thing for him--leaving Lucy happy in the consciousness of anunselfish action. How well she understood him, she thought, and what adear he was. True, there was that one episode of the race-meeting--towhich she owed the present state of her nerves--but even for that shehad by now come to account. It had been an accident after all, she wascertain, and Hector, to gratify his vanity, had made out it wasintentional, and was hence naturally unable to feel the remorse, whichshe and Peter Carson, in their ignorance, had expected of him. Callous?Not he, why, every action of his since then had shown him to be the veryreverse.

  Gradually, braced by the clear Chillata air, and the prospect of aspeedy return home, Lucy, though still feeble, had somewhat recovered,and with the arrival of her husband, on a quite unexpected two months'leave, was now almost happy. For the first two weeks after his comingshe had been somewhat anxious, for talk in Chillata was almostexclusively of war, and the place thronged with applicants to be sentout to South Africa. Only too well did she realise Hector's vanity, andfeared that he also, solely from a morbid disinclination to be left inthe background, might in his turn apply; and she knew he would certainlysucceed, as he always did, when those dreadful sudden fits ofdetermination came upon him. It was therefore with a feeling ofheartfelt relief that she saw him, apparently, in no way interested inthe matter, though, had she known his mind, it is possible she would nothave been so lighthearted on the subject, and would have been more thanever touched by a further proof of his devotion. For exactly what shehad feared was in her husband's mind, and for that reason Hector avoidedChillata assemblies like the plague, refused to attend the theatre,despite Lucy's urgings, and, when obliged to pass that way, hurried bythe Military Offices without a glance.

  He was now, on this September morning, brooding over the subject, acrumpled copy of the _Pioneer_ in his hand, detailing some freshdisaster, which he felt bitterly, had he been in command, would havebeen no defeat, but a brilliant success. For a week withoutintermission it had rained steadily, rendering even the short morningand evening walks impossible; and day after day, night after night, therain had poured drearily down, rattling on the corrugated iron of theroof, turning Lucy's small garden into a quagmire, and shrouding thesurrounding hills and valleys with a pall of white vapour. Smallstreams had become torrents; hill paths running rivulets; while fromweeping fir-tree and chestnut sounded the continuous drip of water ondank fern and rotting vegetation. As Hector looked and heard, a feelingof depression came over him, and with it that other self began to makeitself heard. The longing came over him to be off at once to theMilitary Offices, send in his application, and go, for despite theconstant refusal to others, he had no doubt of success, were he toapply.

  "Three weeks more of this," he reflected, "then two months' idling inthe plains, an
d after that home, a year's loafing again, while othersare making names and passing me. It's that which galls me, being out ofit, I who could leave them all if I chose. Oh, curse my folly of fiveyears ago, impulsive fool that I was; I could have got out of it easilytoo, if only they hadn't opposed me. If they'd made it easy, I don'tthink somehow I'd have persisted. Oh, damnation take it, here am I,with the best wife in the world, regretting. Apply? Not I. Oh, thankGod, here she is. Lucy dear," throwing down the paper, and hurryingforward to meet the pale ghost who now entered, "it's good to see youdown so early. Here's your chair, I've got the cushions and everythingready for you. There," settling her comfortably and tucking the shawlround her feet, "now tell me how you feel, better?"

  "Much better, Hector dear, thanks to you and the way you cheer me up.I'm afraid I'm rather a burden to you now, and so very plain andunattractive. You can't call me pretty, as you used to."

  "Nonsense, Lucy, you're prettier than ever, and far more attractive tome now, naturally."

  "Oh no, I'm not, Hector. You only say that because, because ... you'rethe best husband in the world, so different from most men to theirwives. But isn't that the _Pioneer_, any news of the war?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, Lucy; the war, as you know, doesn't interestme."

  "But surely it ought to, besides, there are so many we know fighting outthere. Oh, Hector, how thankful I am you're not one of those whovolunteered. It would have broken my heart had you done so."

  Hector turned sharply away, and walking to the window remained for amoment staring out into the mist.

  "Lucy," he said suddenly, "why did you always oppose my retiring? Icould have done so before the war started, now I can't."

  "Because I didn't want to spoil your life, Hector. I want you tocommand your regiment, not settle down yet; you're too young. It wasfor your sake I refused. I should have loved it myself."

  "And at the same time you don't want me to see active service," saidHector, with a somewhat justifiable show of irritation. "Can't you see,Lucy, that not being in this war will certainly prove a bar to my own oranybody else's chance of future command?"

  "But you _have_ seen active service, Hector. Surely once is enough forany man, besides, you did so well then, everyone knows you ought to havegot the V.C. Oh, by the way, I have meant to ask you for some time, doyou know a---- Oh, bother, there's a caller, don't go. Hector, it'sonly Mrs. Swaine. How do you do, Mrs. Swaine?" to the lady who wasushered in by the bearer.

  "So glad to find you in, Mrs. Graeme," said the new-comer. "I cameround to ask whether you and your husband would care to come round tolunch to-day. Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but my nephew has justreceived orders for South Africa; he goes to-night, and I'm inviting afew friends to give him a send-off."

  "Your nephew? oh, how dreadful for you, Mrs. Swaine, I'm so sorry."

  "Oh, I don't know, after all, it's what soldiers are for, and Tom'sreally very fortunate to be selected. Everyone's applying nowadays, youknow, and nearly all are refused. They only take the best men, and Tom,though he is my nephew, is very highly thought of at Headquarters."

  "They'd like my husband to go, I know," said Lucy, up in arms at once,"he only has to apply."

  "Oh, really? I didn't know they'd take married men. Sir Henry told methe other day they wouldn't. Anyway, I'm sure Captain Graeme wouldn'tthink of leaving you ... now," with an arch smile at the frowningHector, "the thing's quite unthinkable. But about lunch, will youcome?"

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Swaine, I should like to, but I'm afraid myhusband----"

  "Oh, I'll come," said Hector.

  "Capital," said the lady. "Well, I must be off, I've got all sorts ofthings to see about. Good-bye, you two, so glad," and away trotted Mrs.Swaine, leaving silence behind her.

  "Hector dear," said Lucy, after a pause, "you didn't mind what thatwoman said? She's a good soul really, only tactless."

  "Not I," said Hector, "but you were saying something when she came in.You asked me if I knew----"

  "Oh yes, General Quentin, such a curious person, Hector. They call himGolliwog here, and I should say he has about as much intelligence.Really, I don't think I ever met such a dull person in my life before."

  "He's one of the few men I know, Lucy, whose opinion I respect. Also,he's the only fellow in the army from whom I ever learnt anything."

  "Good gracious, Hector," said Lucy, surprised, for such commendation ofa military superior was something very novel. "I didn't know you'd everseen the man. Tell me about it."

  "Oh, it was after that Mortlock affair, he spoke to me then, snubbedSchofield too--did it jolly well."

  "That was nice of him, Hector, and of course I only saw him for a fewminutes; he didn't even know my name. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'llinvite him to dinner."

  "Certainly not, Lucy," was the unexpected answer, "why, he'sAdjutant-General."

  "What does that matter? He'll come, and you must have somebody to talkto besides me, we'll ask him for to-morrow night; it's your birthday,you know, though I suppose you've forgotten that. Had you, Hector?"

  "I had. I'm a fool about dates, as you know; but, Lucy, please don'task Quentin."

  "No, I won't please, I'm going to; you like him, and that's enough. Oh,look, Hector, the sun, a break in the rains at last. Now I'll write thenote, and you shall take it; the ride will do you good, and you can meetme at the Swaines."

  "Lucy, I'd much sooner stay here with you."

  "No, I've got things to do, I must get on with my sewing, and I can't dothat while you're here."

  "Why not? I'm interested in that sewing. Oh, I do wish, Lucy, you'dlet me know a little more about--about the infant. I really want to,and you never will talk about it."

  "Of course not, such things are not for a man to know about. I intendto keep everything of that sort from you, dear. When he or she comes itwill be different, but till then you mustn't ask questions."

  "But, Lucy, can't you understand----?" began Hector.

  "Perfectly, and it's sweet of you to be interested, or rather appear tobe, for of course you're not really; no man could be in such details,and a woman would be a fool to expect it. Now go, like a good boy, andorder the pony while I write the note."

  She turned away and sat down at her writing-desk, leaving Hectorstanding looking at her, with a baffled expression on his face. For amoment he remained irresolute, then walked slowly away to order thepony, and presently returned to Lucy.

  "Here's the letter, Hector," handing it to him. "You'd better go to theMilitary Offices, you'll find him there now; and I wonder, would youmind getting me some ribbons at Lace's when you pass?"

  "Yes, I'll do that for you gladly, Lucy, but not the other."

  Lucy looked at him, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears.

  "Very well, Hector. It's only a little thing I ask of you, but ofcourse if you won't; and I understand, you--you'd rather your frienddidn't see me like this. I--I know I'm dull and plain, but--but----"

  "Give me the note, Lucy," said Hector quietly. "I'll take it, and enterthe Military Offices for the first time since I've been here." He wentout, and, mounting the pony, departed on his mission.

  * * * * *

  As Lucy had said, there was a break in the rains, and for a while thedense canopy of cloud burst asunder, and lay in sullen banked-up massesgirdling the horizon. A blue sky glared overhead, from which shone abright sun, its rays burning down on dripping tree and sodden ground,forcing from the latter a thick steam, odorous of damp earth, reekingfern, and rotting leaves.

  The sound of running water filled the air, from the faint murmur of tinyrills, threading their way through emerald moss and tangled undergrowth,to the roar of swollen torrents thundering down the hillside on theirway to parent streams below, faint gleams of silver appearing atintervals through the luxuriant vegetation clothing the valley depths.Beyond gleamed the mountains, no longer parched and bare as three
weeksbefore, but clad in velvet green, veined with silver threads glitteringin the sunlight, as they too danced on their way to the river below.

  Graeme noticed none of these things, for the depression of the morninghad now deepened to heavy gloom, and with it had come a sense offoreboding, the feeling of being driven on by destiny, which, struggleas he might, he was powerless to resist.

  Two or three times, in obedience to a faint far-off and in some waystrangely reproachful voice, he reined in his pony and paused, theinclination to return strong upon him, but then, cursing himself for anirresolute fool, he rode on. As he passed through the Mall, crowdedwith folk, who, like butterflies, had emerged from seclusion to desportthemselves in the welcome sunshine, the feeling of foreboding grew,till, on reaching the Military Offices, so loud had the voice becomethat he then and there determined to obey it and return. Arriving atthis decision, he experienced a sense of great relief; the cloud ofgloom lifted from his mind, and, feeling strangely light-hearted, he wasturning his horse about, when the animal suddenly stumbled, recoveredhimself, and then went on; but he was dead lame. "Picked up a stone,"muttered his rider, and, dismounting, was proceeding to extract a sharp,three-cornered flint wedged between the frog and shoe, when a voicehailed him.

  "Good morning, Graeme, what are you doing here?"

  "Nothing," answered Hector, "a ride, that's all. Just going back.Curse this stone."

  Captain Pushful, for that person it was, winked solemnly.

  "'Nothing,'" he said, "'only a ride,' just so, that's what I'm here for,that's what we all come to the Offices for; it's no use, though,Golliwog won't see you, none of 'em will. I ought to know, for I'vetried most of 'em. Going to have a go at his Excellency, though, thisafternoon; we'll see what that will do. Another choking off, I suppose,but no matter."

  "What on earth for?"

  "Same old thing, to get out to South Africa. I'll do it yet, though, inspite of 'em all."--It may here be remarked that Captain Pushful waseventually sent out; De Boudoir, indeed, offered to pay his passage toget rid of him--"But surely you're not having a shot? It's no earthlyuse for you, believe me, you're married. He won't see you, I tell you,"as, the stone extracted, Hector moved away.

  "He certainly would, if I wanted him to," said Graeme, stopping; "but,as it happens, I don't."

  "I'll bet you he doesn't."

  "Oh, all right then, we'll see," and Hector, tying up his pony to therails, mounted the steps leading to the Offices.

  "Which way?" he asked; "d'you know?"

  "Do I know," answered Pushful, with some scorn, "couldn't I draw a planof the whole rotten place by now? You come with me; I'll have anothertry too. I'll ask him if he's got my application."

  "Hang it, we can't both go."

  "Oh yes, we can," and, regardless of Graeme's protests, Pushful led theway to the door of De Boudoir's room, and, without knocking, entered.

  "Can I see----" began both simultaneously.

  "No, you can't. Oh Lord, it's you again," said De Boudoir wrathfully,seeing Pushful, who had thrust himself ahead of Graeme. "By the Poker,but I'll have you out of this double quick," and, springing up, heseized Pushful, who was stealing past to the Adjutant-General's door, bythe collar, and after a short but sharp struggle succeeded in puttinghim outside.

  "And now for you," he began, turning to the other visitant. "It's nouse, I tell you beforehand; the Chief won't see anyone. Oh, it's you,Graeme; I beg your pardon. I was just writing a note to you, asking youto come round. The General wants to see you. That door; go in quietly;he's a bit upset this morning."

  Upon which Graeme knocked, and a testy "Come in" answering him, entered.